The Right Wrong Thing
by Luna16
Summary: Fick / Colbert. “I was asking about the song you were singing when I bailed you out of the brig. Louis Armstrong?” Fick continued. “No,” Brad replied. “Princess Vespa. But close.”


Title: **The Right Wrong Thing**

Rating: Mature

Disclaimer: Based on the characters depicted by the actors in the HBO miniseries.

Summary: Fick / Colbert. _"I was asking about the song you were singing when I bailed you out of the brig. Louis Armstrong?" Fick continued. "No," Brad replied. "Princess Vespa. But close."_  
Written for the Multifandom Bailout Challenge.

***

"Nobody knows the trouble I've seen. Noooooobody knows but Jesuuuus." Brad let his voice go deep as he drummed his fingers against the metal bars. Walt's head rocked precariously against his shoulder so Brad wrapped an arm around him to keep him from face-planting forward. Nobody deserved to meet the floor face-first, especially this floor. Glancing across the cell, Brad watched a Private urinate in the corner.

"Brad, I don't suppose you can elaborate as to why I'm bailing out two of my men at three o'clock in the fucking morning?"

Brad's smile turned wide as he saw Nate Fick coming toward the cell. If seeing Fick wasn't enough to cheer him up, the fact that he was being accompanied by an MP with a key was even better. "Sir, you are my knight in shining armor."

Fick didn't seem appeased by the declaration.

Brad resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at the Corporal as he unlocked the door in a gesture that would have said, 'See, I have an officer who's not a fucking retard, unlike your superior who makes you deny drunk Privates a bathroom resulting in you getting to clean up the floor with a toothbrush later.' Instead he just gave him a toothy smile.

The door clanged open and the Corporal glared at them all. Brad didn't waste any time hauling Walt up off the bench and Fick came over and grabbed Walt's other arm. With less grace than a polar bear trying to dance ballet, they managed to get Walt out of lockup and into Fick's Ford Probe without Fick getting harassed too much by the clerk MP doing the paperwork.

Brad was slumping down into the passenger seat as Fick slammed the door.

"Ow, sir," Brad said, holding his head. He'd managed to hold his headache at bay for the last hour but it looked like it might finally make an appearance.

"What the fuck was that about, Brad?" Fick asked again as he started the car, and Brad remembered that Fick could be persistent when it suited his needs; a trait Brad _usually_ liked in a platoon commander.

The plastic of the seat stuck to him with all the humidity in the air. Brad noticed that officers seemed to have weather like this on their TOE and could call it up at will—especially when it could be used to make the men sweat a little more.

Brad tried his best to get comfortable. The seat, however, was set too close to the dash and the handle to push it back didn't work. Eventually he gave up fiddling with it and decided it was just easier to answer the question. "Walt's been having issues since we got Stateside, so I thought it would be best if I joined him for a beer."

"In the brig? What an odd location for a bar." Fick's voice held an edge of sarcasm.

It seemed Brad would have to explain further, but he didn't want to advertise Walt's problems anymore than he had to. "Unfortunately, there was a small altercation, and since the mud puppies wouldn't let me handle it, I figured I should tag along to make sure Walt didn't get into any more trouble."

Fick seemed to accept that. His expression softened as he spared Brad a glace when pulling onto the road. "And you thought the best way to 'tag along' was to punch an MP?"

"He deserved it. Guy was an asshole." Brad tried to roll the window down to get some fresh air, but no luck. The handle jiggled, but didn't actually do anything useful. Fucking Fords.

With a sigh, Fick reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum, offering one to Brad. "Quit trying to break my car. How many drinks did you have?"

Raising his eyebrow as high as it would go, Brad did his best to look appalled—mostly at the accusation that he could make Fick's car any worse than it already was. "I would have thought that after our trip to the desert, you would have upgraded to an import."

When Fick waved the gum at him again, and Brad reluctantly took one. What he really needed was some ibuprofen, but it looked like this was all he was going to get. Checking his breath, he realized maybe it wasn't such a bad thing. The smell he'd thought belonged only to Walt had migrated to him as well. He popped it into his mouth and the winter fresh, super-fucking taste of peppermint pierced his skull right through his eyeballs.

Fick chuckled when he let out a moan. Guy was a heartless bastard sometimes.

They managed to deposit Walt in his quarters with what Brad figured was slightly more aplomb than their exit from the MP shack, but only just. Practice made perfect only when the object involved didn't fall into a comatose-like sleep and have to be dragged up three flights of stairs. Because of course, there were no elevators in the Marines' quarters. Thank God Walt had had a well stocked medicine cabinet.

Back in the car, Fick started to drive Brad to his place off base.

"I didn't know you were a Louis Armstrong fan," Fick said casually, breaking the silence when they stopped at a red light.

"Come again, sir?" The Tylenol was working wonders on his headache and the super-fucking taste of peppermint was sobering him up like a hand grenade in his cereal but Brad still didn't have a clue what he was talking about.

"I think it's safe to say you can drop the 'sir' when we're alone."

Brad nodded with a small smile. Not that Walt had posed much danger to them in his current state, but still. What was going on between him and Fick had to be on the down low. Not that Brad knew how to classify what they were doing except to say that the few hand jobs and the blow job he'd given Fick last week were probably not what the Gunnery Sergeant in his recruit training had meant when he was teaching him about the Officer-NCO relationship. "Sorry. Habit, I guess."

"I was asking about the song you were singing when I bailed you out of the brig. Louis Armstrong?" Fick continued, resting his hand on the gear shift and Brad noticed that it wasn't too far from his knee.

"No," Brad replied. "Princess Vespa. But close."

Fick laughed, obviously in a better mood, and Brad noticed it was a sound he didn't get to hear too often. He also noticed that the smile made Fick looked even younger. Sure, Iraq had aged them all—Walt had flashbacks every time someone clinked a glass, a problem that had led them to tonight, Poke had gone home to his wife and promptly impregnated her again, and others had tried to do the same but found their homes empty instead. Fick had new frown lines on his forehead, but still, right now, Brad could almost forget all that. For once, it was three o'clock in the fucking morning and he wasn't getting shot at, digging a hole or looking through a scope. His body wasn't vibrating with the sound of artillery or mortar fire.

All in all, it was rather nice. Now if only he could figure out how to get Fick's hand to travel the extra few inches to rest on his leg.

Eventually they pulled into his apartment complex and Fick cut the engine. Brad eyed the building. It looked dark and lonely. And even though it did have elevators, the thought of trucking up there by himself didn't have the appeal the promise of a several hours of solid sleep once did. He wondered if he had the nerve to invite Fick up. All their previous encounters had had a certain urgency to them—no time to think, to contemplate how dangerous their relationship was getting. Now, there was lots of time. They weren't due back on duty for another thirty-six hours.

"Thanks—" Brad tried to say, but the first word came out hoarse and mumbled so he tried again. "Thanks for coming down there to get us. Anyone else would have let us rot til morning."

Fick's earlier disgruntlement appeared completely gone. "It was a good thing you did for Walt there."

"Getting arrested? I thought you didn't approve."

Fick shook his head. "It was more the three o'clock in the morning part I didn't approve of. There's a difference between doing the right wrong thing and the wrong right thing as you should know from our trip to the desert. We spent over a month doing all the wrong 'right' stuff that Godfather thought up and every time we actually tried to do a real right thing, it turned out to be wrong thing according to him. I've had about enough of that bullshit. What you did tonight was a right thing."

Again, Brad didn't have a clue what he was talking about, but Fick certainly had a sweet looking mouth. Especially when he got all worked up about something.

Fick met his eyes and they sat there staring at each. When he spoke again, Fick's voice was much quieter. "Besides, I couldn't let you sit there too long. What if some Daddy wanted to make you pick up the soap for him?"

That made Brad laugh. "I'm a cold, hard marine killer, remember?"

"True enough, but still. Are you going to invite me up, or are we gonna stay here eyeing each other all night?"

"That, sir, is the first thing you've said tonight that makes sense." Before Fick could change his mind, Brad was out the door and heading towards the driver's side. As Fick got out, Brad trapped him against the side of the car. It was a risky move but Brad felt an exhilaration usually reserved for going 120 mph on an open road. Bringing his hips up against Fick's, he shuddered at the heat and closeness.

"Is this another one of those right wrong things, sir?"

Fick angled his head up and Brad had the delirious notion to kiss him right here, out in the open. They were close enough that if anyone was watching they were probably in a world of hurt, anyway. Good thing he was a cold, hard marine killer—and that it was the middle of the night. He brought his head down closer until he could feel Fick's breath against his face.

"I think you should call me Nate, you know," Fick whispered.

Brad smiled and leaned all the way in, kissing Fick for the first time. It was rough and soft, right and wrong and a million other conflicting things rolled into one. But mostly, Brad never wanted it to stop.

Eventually Nate pushed him away, with his arm shaking a little, and dragged them both towards the front entrance. "Inside, now."

"Yes, sir," Brad couldn't resist the last remark about his rank. Because though he was pretty sure the fact that they were in the same chain of command bothered Nate, the truth was, it didn't bother Brad at all. All the things that made Nate a great platoon commander were all the things that made Brad want to grab onto him and fuck him senseless into next week.

Right or wrong, it didn't matter. Brad liked to keep things simple that way.

***

A/N:

1. TOE: Table of Organization and Equipment which is a document that describes the structure and equipment for each unit or type of unit.

2. Princess Vespa is from Spaceballs. May the Schwartz be with you. /geekiness


End file.
